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GIFT  OF 

Estate  of  S.  H.   Cowell 


Wordsworth's  Sonnets 


LJCJCV 


William  Wordsworth 


The  Riverside  Press 


Table  of  First  Lines 


NATURE 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon,  1 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  :  2 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  3 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  sky,  4 

With  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh,  5 

Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go  ?  6 

I  dropped  my  pen;  and  listened  to  the  Wind  7 

How  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously  bright  8 

The  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said,  9 

Brook !  whose  society  the  Poet  seeks,  1 0 

One  who  was  suffering  tumult  in  his  soul,  1 1 

Clouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars  1 2 
Lone  Flower,  hemmed  in  with  snows  and  white  as  they         1 3 

There  is  a  little  unpretending  Rill  14 

There  7s  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass,  1 5 

4  There ! '  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride  1 6 

Hark !  't  is  the  Thrush,  undaunted,  undeprest,  1 7 

Motions  and  Means,  on  land  and  sea  at  war  1 8 


'Beloved  Vale!'  I  said,  'when  I  shall  con'  19 

Sole  listener,  Duddon !  to  the  breeze  that  played  20 

Those  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood  21 
Well  may'st  thou  halt — and  gaze  with  brightening  eye !       22 

Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour !  23 

Is  then  no  nook  of  English  ground  secure  24 

MAN 

Fair  Star  of  evening,  Splendour  of  the  west,  25 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men !  26 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee;  27 

O  Friend!  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look  28 

Milton !  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour :  29 

Great  men  have  been  among  us;  hands  that  penned  30 

Calvert!  it  must  not  be  unheard  by  them  3 1 

Two  Voices  are  there ;  one  is  of  the  sea,  32 

Though  narrow  be  that  old  Man's  cares,  and  near,  3  3 

Say,  what  is  Honour  ? — 'T  is  the  finest  sense  34 

A  vaunt  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind  35 

The  power  of  Armies  is  a  visible  thing,  36 

Affections  lose  their  object;  Time  brings  forth  37 


Young  England — what  is  then  become  of  Old,  38 

Discourse  was  deemed  Man's  noblest  attribute,  39 

I,  who  accompanied  with  faithful  pace  4O 

Behold  a  pupil  of  the  monkish  gown,  41 

When  thy  great  soul  was  freed  from  mortal  chains,  42 

A  pleasant  music  floats  along  the  Mere,  43 

The  woman-hearted  Confessor  prepares  44 

The  turbaned  Race  are  poured  in  thickening  swarms  45 

There  are  no  colours  in  the  fairest  sky  46 

Well  worthy  to  be  magnified  are  they  47 

Why  sleeps  the  future,  as  a  snake  enrolled,  48 

THE    POET 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned,  49 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room ;  5O 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains  5 1 

A  Poet ! — He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school,  5  2 

Praised  be  the  Art  whose  subtle  power  could  stay  5  3 

High  is  our  calling,  Friend ! — Creative  Art  54 

Ye  sacred  Nurseries  of  blooming  Youth !  5  5 

Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell  56 


I  am  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight  5  7 

4  Yet  life,'  you  say,'  is  life;  we  have  seen  and  see,'  58 

Wings  have  we, — and  as  far  as  we  can  go,  59 

Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby  60 

0  gentle  Sleep !  do  they  belong  to  thee,  6 1 
A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by,  62 
Fond  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee,  Sleep !  6  3 
4  Why,  Minstrel,  these  untuneful  murmurings '  64 
Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,  the  boat  65 
Surprised  by  joy — impatient  as  the  Wind  66 
Weak  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind ;  6  7 
Grief,  thou  hast  lost  an  ever-ready  friend  68 
While  flowing  rivers  yield  a  blameless  sport,  69 
Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes  70 
If  these  brief  Records,  by  the  Muses'  art  71 
Even  so  for  me  a  Vision  sanctified  72 
Adieu,  Rydalian  Laurels !  that  have  grown  73 

1  thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide,  74> 
Serving  no  haughty  Muse,  my  hands  have  here  75 


ISiatu 


re 


C 


The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon ! 
The  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God !  I  'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 
This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky ; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 


'     rf>>        I       •...•  4  ilV  •»  •  J 

.{•>'..;*>  iron  'fli^J  ciij 
fa  srft-lo  yttJiidd  3d 


C    3    3 


It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea : 

Listen !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child !  dear  Girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 

And  worship' st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb 'st  the  sky, 
4  How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! ' 
Where  art  thou  ?  Thou  so  often  seen  on  high 
Running  among  the  clouds  a  Wood-nymph's  race! 
Unhappy  Nuns,  whose  common  breath 's  a  sigh 
Which  they  would  stifle,  move  at  such  a  pace ! 
The  northern  Wind,  to  call  thee  to  the  chase, 
Must  blow  to-night  his  bugle  horn.  Had  I 
The  power  of  Merlin,  Goddess !  this  should  be : 
And  all  the  stars,  fast  as  the  clouds  wrere  riven, 
Should  sally  forth,  to  keep  thee  company, 
Hurrying  and  sparkling  through  the  clear  blue  heaven. 
But,  Cynthia !  should  to  thee  the  palm  be  given, 
Queen  both  for  beauty  and  for  majesty. 


C  s 


With  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh, 

Like  stars  in  heaven,  and  joyously  it  showed ; 

Some  lying  fast  at  anchor  in  the  road, 

Some  veering  up  and  down,  one  knew  not  why. 

A  goodly  Vessel  did  I  then  espy 

Come  like  a  giant  from  a  haven  broad ; 

And  lustily  along  the  bay  she  strode, 

Her  tackling  rich,  and  of  apparel  high. 

This  Ship  was  nought  to  me,  nor  I  to  her, 

Yet  I  pursued  her  with  a  Lover's  look ; 

This  Ship  to  all  the  rest  did  I  prefer : 

When  will  she  turn,  and  whither?  She  will  brook 

No  tarrying ;  where  She  comes  the  winds  must  stir 

On  went  She,  and  due  north  her  journey  took. 


Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go? 

Fresh  as  a  lark  mounting  at  break  of  day, 

Festively  she  puts  forth  in  trim  array ; 

Is  she  for  tropic  suns,  or  polar  snow? 

What  boots  the  inquiry? — Neither  friend  nor  foe 

She  cares  for ;  let  her  travel  where  she  may, 

She  finds  familiar  names,  a  beaten  way 

Ever  before  her,  and  a  wind  to  blow. 

Yet  still  I  ask,  what  haven  is  her  mark? 

And,  almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were  rare, 

(From  time  to  time,  like  Pilgrims,  here  and  there 

Crossing  the  waters)  doubt,  and  something  dark, 

Of  the  old  Sea  some  reverential  fear, 

Is  with  me  at  thy  farewell,  joyous  Bark ! 


til 


I  dropped  my  pen ;  and  listened  to  the  Wind 

That  sang  of  trees  uptorn  and  vessels  tost — 

A  midnight  harmony ;  and  wholly  lost 

To  the  general  sense  of  men  by  chains  confined 

Of  business,  care,  or  pleasure ;  or  resigned 

To  timely  sleep.  Thought  I,  the  impassioned  strain, 

Which,  without  aid  of  numbers,  I  sustain, 

Like  acceptation  from  the  World  will  find. 

Yet  some  with  apprehensive  ear  shall  drink 

A  dirge  devoutly  breathed  o'er  sorrows  past; 

And  to  the  attendant  promise  will  give  heed  — 

The  prophecy, — like  that  of  this  wild  blast, 

Which,  while  it  makes  the  heart  with  sadness  shrink, 

Tells  also  of  bright  calms  that  shall  succeed. 


How  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously  bright 

The  effluence  from  yon  distant  mountain's  head, 

Which,  strewn  with  snow  smooth  as  the  sky  can  shed, 

Shines  like  another  sun — on  mortal  sight 

Uprisen,  as  if  to  check  approaching  Night, 

And  all  her  twinkling  stars.  Who  now  would  tread, 

If  so  he  might,  yon  mountain's  glittering  head — 

Terrestrial,  but  a  surface,  by  the  flight 

Of  sad  mortality's  earth-sullying  wing, 

Unswept,  unstained?  Nor  shall  the  aerial  Powers 

Dissolve  that  beauty,  destined  to  endure, 

White,  radiant,  spotless,  exquisitely  pure, 

Through  all  vicissitudes,  till  genial  Spring 

Has  filled  the  laughing  vales  with  welcome  flowers. 


1 9 


The  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said, 
'  Bright  is  thy  veil,  O  Moon,  as  thou  art  bright ! 
Forthwith,  that  little  cloud,  in  ether  spread 
And  penetrated  all  with  tender  light, 
She  cast  away,  and  showed  her  fulgent  head 
Uncovered;  dazzling  the  Beholder's  sight 
As  if  to  vindicate  her  beauty's  right 
Her  beauty  thoughtlessly  disparaged. 
Meanwhile  that  veil,  removed  or  thrown  aside, 
Went  floating  from  her,  darkening  as  it  went ; 
And  a  huge  mass,  to  bury  or  to  hide, 
Approached  this  glory  of  the  firmament ; 
Who  meekly  yields,  and  is  obscured — content 
With  one  calm  triumph  of  a  modest  pride. 


Brook !  whose  society  the  Poet  seeks, 
Intent  his  wasted  spirits  to  renew ; 
And  whom  the  curious  Painter  doth  pursue 
Through  rocky  passes,  among  flowery  creeks, 
And  tracks  thee  dancing  down  thy  water-breaks ; 
If  wish  were  mine  some  type  of  thee  to  view, 
Thee,  and  not  thee  thyself,  I  would  not  do 
Like  Grecian  Artists,  give  thee  human  cheeks, 
Channels  for  tears;  no  Naiad  should 'st  thou  be, — 
Have  neither  limbs,  feet,  feathers,  joints  nor  hairs : 
It  seems  the  Eternal  Soul  is  clothed  in  thee 
With  purer  robes  than  those  of  flesh  and  blood, 
And  hath  bestowed  on  thee  a  safer  good ; 
Unwearied  joy,  and  life  without  its  cares. 


C 


One  who  was  suffering  tumult  in  his  soul, 

Yet  failed  to  seek  the  sure  relief  of  prayer, 

Went  forth — his  course  surrendering  to  the  care 

Of  the  fierce  wind,  while  mid-day  lightnings  prowl 

Insidiously,  untimely  thunders  growl ; 

While  trees,  dim-seen,  in  frenzied  numbers,  tear 

The  lingering  remnant  of  their  yellow  hair, 

And  shivering  wolves,  surprised  with  darkness,  howl 

As  if  the  sun  were  not.  He  raised  his  eye 

Soul-smitten ;  for,  that  instant,  did  appear 

Large  space  ('mid  dreadful  clouds)  of  purest  sky, 

An  azure  disc  —  shield  of  Tranquillity ; 

Invisible,  unlooked-for,  minister 

Of  providential  goodness  ever  nigh ! 


C 


Clouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars 

Through  the  grey  west ;  and  lo !  these  waters,  steeled 

By  breezeless  air  to  smoothest  polish,  yield 

A  vivid  repetition  of  the  stars ; 

Jove,  Venus,  and  the  ruddy  crest  of  Mars 

Amid  his  fellows  beauteously  revealed 

At  happy  distance  from  earth's  groaning  field, 

Where  ruthless  mortals  wage  incessant  wars. 

Is  it  a  mirror? — or  the  nether  Sphere 

Opening  to  view  the  abyss  in  which  she  feeds 

Her  own  calm  fires? — But  list !  a  voice  is  near ; 

Great  Pan  himself  low- whispering  through  the  reeds, 

'Be  thankful,  thou ;  for,  if  unholy  deeds 

Ravage  the  world,  tranquillity  is  here ! ' 


C 


Lone  Flower,  hemmed  in  with  snows  and  white  as  they* 

But  hardier  far,  once  more  I  see  thee  bend 

Thy  forehead,  as  if  fearful  to  offend, 

Like  an  unbidden  guest.  Though  day  by  day, 

Storms,  sallying  from  the  mountain- tops,  waylay 

The  rising  sun,  and  on  the  plains  descend ; 

Yet  art  thou  welcome,  welcome  as  a  friend 

Whose  zeal  outruns  his  promise !  Blue-eyed  May 

Shall  soon  behold  this  border  thickly  set 

With  bright  jonquils,  their  odours  lavishing 

On  the  soft  west- wind  and  his  frolic  peers ; 

Nor  will  I  then  thy  modest  grace  forget, 

Chaste  Snowdrop,  venturous  harbinger  of  Spring, 

And  pensive  monitor  of  fleeting  years ! 


c 


There  is  a  little  unpretending  Rill 

Of  limpid  water,  humbler  far  than  aught 

That  ever  among  Men  or  Naiads  sought 

Notice  or  name !  — It  quivers  down  the  hill, 

Furrowing  its  shallow  way  with  dubious  will; 

Yet  to  my  mind  this  scanty  Stream  is  brought 

Oftener  than  Ganges  or  the  Nile ;  a  thought 

Of  private  recollection  sweet  and  still ! 

Months  perish  with  their  moons ;  year  treads  on  year ! 

But,  faithful  Emma !  thou  with  me  canst  say 

That,  while  ten  thousand  pleasures  disappear, 

And  flies  their  memory  fast  almost  as  they ; 

The  immortal  Spirit  of  one  happy  day 

Lingers  beside  that  Rill,  in  vision  clear. 


C  ls 


There 's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass 

But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  One 

Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 

That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 

Withered  at  eve.  From  scenes  of  art  which  chase 

That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 

Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 

Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 

Untouched,  unbreathed  upon.  Thrice  happy  quest, 

If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 

(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 

The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 

That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven- taught  lay, 

Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest! 


*  There ! '  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride 
Towards  a  low  roof  with  green  trees  half  concealed, 
4  Is  Mosgiel  Farm ;  and  that 's  the  very  field 
Where  Burns  ploughed  up  the  Daisy.'  Far  and  wide 
A  plain  below  stretched  seaward,  while,  descried 
Above  sea-clouds,  the  Peaks  of  Arran  rose; 
And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air,  was  vivified. 
Beneath  '  the  random  bield  of  clod  or  stone ' 
Myriads  of  daisies  have  shone  forth  in  flower 
Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural  hour 
Have  passed  away ;  less  happy  than  the  One 
That,  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare,  died  to  prove 
The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love. 


t 


Hark!  'tis  the  Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, 

By  twilight  premature  of  cloud  and  rain ; 

Nor  does  that  roaring  wind  deaden  his  strain 

Who  carols  thinking  of  his  Love  and  nest, 

And  seems,  as  more  incited,  still  more  blest. 

Thanks;  thou  hast  snapped  a  fireside  Prisoner's  chain, 

Exulting  Warbler!  eased  a  fretted  brain, 

And  in  a  moment  charmed  my  cares  to  rest. 

Yes,  I  will  forth,  bold  Bird !  and  front  the  blast, 

That  we  may  sing  together,  if  thou  wilt, 

So  loud,  so  clear,  my  Partner  through  life's  day, 

Mute  in  her  nest  love-chosen,  if  not  love-built 

Like  thine,  shall  gladden,  as  in  seasons  past, 

Thrilled  by  loose  snatches  of  the  social  Lay. 


C  18  3 


Motions  and  Means,  on  land  and  sea  at  war 

With  old  poetic  feeling,  not  for  this, 

Shall  ye  by  Poets  even,  be  judged  amiss ! 

Nor  shall  your  presence,  howsoe'er  it  mar 

The  loveliness  of  Nature,  prove  a  bar 

To  the  Mind's  gaining  that  prophetic  sense 

Of  future  change,  that  point  of  vision,  whence 

May  be  discovered  what  in  soul  ye  are. 

In  spite  of  all  that  beauty  may  disown 

In  your  harsh  features,  Nature  doth  embrace 

Her  lawful  offspring  in  Man's  art;  and  Time, 

Pleased  with  your  triumphs  o'er  his  brother  Space, 

Accepts  from  your  bold  hands  the  proffered  crown 

Of  hope,  and  smiles  on  you  with  cheer  sublime. 


C 


4  Beloved  Vale ! '  I  said,  *  when  I  shall  con 
Those  many  records  of  my  childish  years, 
Remembrance  of  myself  and  of  my  peers 
Will  press  me  down :  to  think  of  what  is  gone 
Will  be  an  awful  thought,  if  life  have  one. ' 
But,  when  into  the  Vale  I  came,  no  fears 
Distressed  me ;  from  mine  eyes  escaped  no  tears ; 
Deep  thought,  or  dread  remembrance,  had  I  none, 
By  doubts  and  thousand  petty  fancies  crost 
I  stood,  of  simple  shame  the  blushing  Thrall ; 
So  narrow  seemed  the  brooks,  the  fields  so  small ! 
A  Juggler's  balls  old  Time  about  him  tossed ; 
I  looked,  I  stared,  I  smiled,  I  laughed ;  and  all 
The  weight  of  sadness  was  in  wonder  lost. 


[20] 


Sole  listener,  Duddon !  to  the  breeze  that  played 
With  thy  clear  voice,  I  caught  the  fitful  sound 
Wafted  o'er  sullen  moss  and  craggy  mound — 
Unfruitful  solitudes,  that  seemed  to  upbraid 
The  sun  in  heaven !  — but  now,  to  form  a  shade 
For  Thee,  green  alders  have  together  wound 
Their  foliage ;  ashes  flung  their  arms  around ; 
And  birch-trees  risen  in  silver  colonnade. 
And  thou  hast  also  tempted  here  to  rise, 
'Mid  sheltering  pines, this  Cottage  rude  and  grey; 
Whose  ruddy  children,  by  the  mother's  eyes 
Carelessly  watched,  sport  through  the  summer  day, 
Thy  pleased  associates :  — light  as  endless  May 
On  infant  bosoms  lonely  Nature  lies. 


4 they  are  of  the  sky, 

And  from  our  earthly  memory  fade  away.' 

Those  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood 
We  turned, departing  from  that  solemn  sight: 
A  contrast  and  reproach  to  gross  delight, 
And  life's  unspiritual  pleasures  daily  wooed ! 
But  now  upon  this  thought  I  cannot  brood ; 
It  is  unstable  as  a  dream  of  night ; 
Nor  will  I  praise  a  cloud,  however  bright, 
Disparaging  Man's  gifts,  and  proper  food. 
Grove,  isle,  with  every  shape  of  sky-built  dome, 
Though  clad  in  colours  beautiful  and  pure, 
Find  in  the  heart  of  man  no  natural  home : 
The  immortal  Mind  craves  objects  that  endure: 
These  cleave  to  it;  from  these  it  cannot  roam, 
Nor  they  from  it :  their  fellowship  is  secure. 


C  22  3 


Well  may'st  thou  halt — and  gaze  with  brightening  eye ! 

The  lovely  Cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 

Hath  stirred  thee  deeply ;  with  its  own  dear  brook, 

Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky ! 

But  covet  not  the  Abode ;  — forbear  to  sigh, 

As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look ; 

Intruders— who  would  tear  from  Nature's  book 

This  precious  leaf,  with  harsh  impiety. 

Think  what  the  home  must  be  if  it  were  thine, 

Even  thine,  though  few  thy  wants !  — Roof,  window,  door, 

The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  Poor, 

The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine : 

Yea,  all,  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 

On  which  it  should  be  touched,  would  melt  away. 


n 2s  3 


Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour! 

Not  dull  art  Thou  as  undiscerning  Night ; 

But  studious  only  to  remove  from  sight 

Day's  mutable  distinctions.  — Ancient  Power! 

Thus  did  the  waters  gleam,  the  mountains  lower, 

To  the  rude  Briton,  when,  in  wolf-skin  vest 

Here  roving  wild,  he  laid  him  down  to  rest 

On  the  bare  rock,  or  through  a  leafy  bower 

Looked  ere  his  eyes  were  closed.  By  him  was  seen 

The  self-same  Vision  which  we  now  behold, 

At  thy  meek  bidding,  shadowy  Power !  brought  forth 

These  mighty  barriers,  and  the  gulf  between; 

The  flood,  the  stars, — a  spectacle  as  old 

As  the  beginning  of  the  heavens  and  earth ! 


Is  then  no  nook  of  English  ground  secure 

From  rash  assault?  Schemes  of  retirement  sown 

In  youth,  and  'mid  the  busy  world  kept  pure 

As  when  their  earliest  flowers  of  hope  were  blown, 

Must  perish ;  — how  can  they  this  blight  endure? 

And  must  he  too  the  ruthless  change  bemoan 

Who  scorns  a  false  utilitarian  lure 

'Mid  his  paternal  fields  at  random  thrown? 

Baffle  the  threat,  bright  Scene,  from  Orrest-head 

Given  to  the  pausing  traveller's  rapturous  glance: 

Plead  for  thy  peace,  thou  beautiful  romance 

Of  nature ;  and,  if  human  hearts  be  dead, 

Speak,  passing  winds ;  ye  torrents,  with  your  strong 

And  constant  voice,  protest  against  the  wrong. 


Man 


Fair  Star  of  evening,  Splendour  of  the  west, 

Star  of  my  Country !  — on  the  horizon's  brink 

Thou  hangest,  stooping,  as  might  seem,  to  sink 

On  England's  bosom ;  yet  well  pleased  to  rest, 

Meanwhile,  and  be  to  her  a  glorious  crest 

Conspicuous  to  the  Nations.  Thou,  I  think, 

Should' st  be  my  Country's  emblem;  and  should'st  wink, 

Bright- Star !  with  laughter  on  her  banners,  drest 

In  thy  fresh  beauty.  There!  that  dusky  spot 

Beneath  thee,that  is  England;  there  she  lies. 

Blessings  be  on  you  both !  one  hope,  one  lot, 

One  life,  one  glory !  — I,  with  many  a  fear 

For  my  dear  Country,  many  heartfelt  sighs, 

Among  men  who  do  not  love  her,  linger  here. 


OflO 


[26 


Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men ! 
Whether  the  whistling  Rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den ;  — 
O  miserable  Chieftain !  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience?  Yet  die  not;  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live,  and  take  comfort.  Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ;  air,  earth,  and  skies ; 
There 's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee;  thou  hast  great  allies; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 


3 


Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee ; 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  west :  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,  bright  and  free ; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate ; 
And,  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay ; 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day : 
Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  Shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great,  is  passed  away. 


O 


O  Friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 

For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest, 

To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 

For  show  ;  mean  handy-  work  of  craftsman,  cook, 

Or  groom  !  —  We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 

In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest  : 

The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best  : 

No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 

Delights  us.  Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 

This  is  idolatry  ;  and  these  we  adore  : 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more  : 

The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 

Is  gone  ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 

And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 


Milton!  thou  should 'st  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish  men; 
Oh !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 
And  give* us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea : 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


n  3° 


Great  men  have  been  among  us ;  hands  that  penned 

And  tongues  that  uttered  wisdom — better  none: 

The  later  Sidney,  Marvel,  Harrington, 

Young  Vane,  and  others  who  called  Milton  friend. 

These  moralists  could  act  and  comprehend : 

They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on ; 

Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone 

In  splendour :  what  strength  was,  that  would  not  bend 

But  in  magnanimous  meekness.  France,  'tis  strange, 

Hath  brought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we  had  then. 

Perpetual  emptiness !  unceasing  change ! 

No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code, 

No  master  spirit,  no  determined  road ; 

But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men ! 


C  31 


Calvert !  it  must  not  be  unheard  by  them 
Who  may  respect  my  name,  that  I  to  thee 
Owed  many  years  of  early  liberty. 
This  care  was  thine  when  sickness  did  condemn 
Thy  youth  to  hopeless  wasting,  root  and  stem — 
That  I,  if  frugal  and  severe,  might  stray 
Where'er  I  liked ;  and  finally  array 
My  temples  with  the  Muse's  diadem. 
Hence,  if  in  freedom  I  have  loved  the  truth ; 
If  there  be  aught  of  pure,  or  good,  or  great, 
In  my  past  verse ;  or  shall  be,  in  the  lays 
Of  higher  mood,  which  now  I  meditate ;  — 
It  gladdens  me,  O  worthy,  short-lived,  Youth ! 
To  think  how  much  of  this  will  be  thy  praise. 


C  32  1 


Two  Voices  are  there ;  one  is  of  the  sea, 
One  of  the  mountains ;  each  a  mighty  Voice : 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty ! 
There  came  a  Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 
Thou  fought' st  against  him ;  but  hast  vainly  striven 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 
Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft : 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left; 
For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 
That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 
And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 
And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee ! 


C  33 


Though  narrow  be  that  old  Man's  cares,  and  near, 
The  poor  old  Man  is  greater  than  he  seems : 
For  he  hath  waking  empire,  wide  as  dreams ; 
An  ample  sovereignty  of  eye  and  ear. 
Rich  are  his  walks  with  supernatural  cheer; 
The  region  of  his  inner  spirit  teems 
With  vital  sounds  and  monitory  gleams 
Of  high  astonishment  and  pleasing  fear. 
He  the  seven  birds  hath  seen,  that  never  part, 
Seen  the  SEVEN  WHISTLERS  in  their  nightly  rounds, 
And  counted  them :  and  oftentimes  will  start — 
For  overhead  are  sweeping  GABRIEL'S  HOUNDS 
Doomed,  with  their  impious  Lord,  the  flying  Hart 
To  chase  for  ever,  on  aerial  grounds ! 


C 


Say,  what  is  Honour? — 'T  is  the  finest  sense 
Of 'justice  which  the  human  mind  can  frame, 
Intent  each  lurking  frailty  to  disclaim, 
And  guard  the  way  of  life  from  all  offence 
Suffered  or  done.  When  lawless  violence 
Invades  a  Realm,  so  pressed  that  in  the  scale 
Of  perilous  war  her  weightiest  armies  fail, 
Honour  is  hopeful  elevation,  — whence 
Glory,  and  triumph.  Yet  with  politic  skill 
Endangered  States  may  yield  to  terms  unjust; 
Stoop  their  proud  heads,  but  not  unto  the  dust 
A  Foe's  most  favourite  purpose  to  fulfil: 
Happy  occasions  oft  by  self-mistrust 
Are  forfeited ;  but  infamy  doth  kill. 


C 


Avaunt  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind 

In  men  of  low  degree,  all  smooth  pretence ! 

I  better  like  a  blunt  indifference, 

And  self-respecting  slowness,  disinclined 

To  win  me  at  first  sight :  and  be  there  joined 

Patience  and  temperance  with  this  high  reserve, 

Honour  that  knows  the  path  and  will  not  swerve ; 

Aifections,  which,  if  put  to  proof,  are  kind ; 

And  piety  towards  God.  Such  men  of  old 

Were  England's  native  growth;  and, throughout  Spain 

(Thanks  to  high  God)  forests  of  such  remain : 

Then  for  that  Country  let  our  hopes  be  bold ; 

For  matched  with  these  shall  policy  prove  vain, 

Her  arts,  her  strength,  her  iron,  and  her  gold. 


C 


The  power  of  Armies  is  a  visible  thing, 
Formal, and  circumscribed  in  time  and  space; 
But  who  the  limits  of  that  power  shall  trace 
Which  a  brave  People  into  light  can  bring 
Or  hide,  at  will,  — for  freedom  combating 
By  just  revenge  inflamed?  No  foot  may  chase, 
No  eye  can  follow,  to  a  fatal  place 
That  power,  that  spirit,  whether  on  the  wing 
Like  the  strong  wind,  or  sleeping  like  the  wind 
Within  its  awful  caves.  — From  year  to  year 
Springs  this  indigenous  produce  far  and  near ; 

No  craft  this  subtle  element  can  bind, 

i 

Rising  like  water  from  the  soil,  to  find 
In  every  nook  a  lip  that  it  may  cheer. 


C 


Affections  lose  their  object;  Time  brings  forth 

No  successors;  and, lodged  in  memory, 

If  love  exist  no  longer,  it  must  die,  — 

Wanting  accustomed  food,  must  pass  from  earth, 

Or  never  hope  to  reach  a  second  birth. 

This  sad  belief,  the  happiest  that  is  left 

To  thousands,  share  not  Thou ;  howe'er  bereft, 

Scorned,  or  neglected,  fear  not  such  a  dearth. 

Though  poor  and  destitute  of  friends  thou  art, 

Perhaps  the  sole  survivor  of  thy  race, 

One  to  whom  Heaven  assigns  that  mournful  part 

The  utmost  solitude  of  age  to  face, 

Still  shall  be  left  some  corner  of  the  heart 

Where  Love  for  living  Thing  can  find  a  place. 


C  38 


Young  England — what  is  then  become  of  Old, 

Of  dear  Old  England?  Think  they  she  is  dead, 

Dead  to  the  very  name?  Presumption  fed 

On  empty  air !  That  name  will  keep  its  hold 

In  the  true  filial  bosom's  inmost  fold 

For  ever.  — The  Spirit  of  Alfred,  at  the  head 

Of  all  who  for  her  rights  watched,  toiled,  and  bled, 

Knows  that  this  prophecy  is  not  too  bold. 

What — how !  shall  she  submit  in  will  and  deed 

To  Beardless  Boys — an  imitative  race, 

The  servumpecus  of  a  Gallic  breed? 

Dear  Mother !  if  thou  must  thy  steps  retrace, 

Go  where  at  least  meek  Innocency  dwells ; 

Let  Babes  and  Sucklings  be  thy  oracles. 


Discourse  was  deemed  Man's  noblest  attribute, 
And  written  words  the  glory  of  his  hand ; 
Then  followed  Printing  with  enlarged  command 
For  thought — dominion  vast  and  absolute 
For  spreading  truth,  and  making  love  expand. 
Now  prose  and  verse  sunk  into  disrepute 
Must  lacquey  a  dumb  Art  that  best  can  suit 
The  taste  of  this  once-intellectual  Land. 
A  backward  movement  surely  have  we  here, 
From  manhood,  — back  to  childhood ;  for  the  age 
Back  towards  caverned  life's  first  rude  career. 
Avaunt  this  vile  abuse  of  pictured  page ! 
Must  eyes  be  all  in  all,  the  tongue  and  ear 
Nothing?  Heaven  keep  us  from  a  lower  stage! 


£40    3 

FROM  THE  ECCLESIASTICAL  SONNETS 
INTRODUCTION 

I,  who  accompanied  with  faithful  pace 

Cerulean  Duddon  from  his  cloud-fed  spring, 

And  loved  with  spirit  ruled  by  his  to  sing 

Of  mountain  quiet  and  boon  nature's  grace; 

I,  who  essayed  the  nobler  Stream  to  trace 

Of  Liberty,  and  smote  the  plausive  string 

Till  the  checked  torrent,  proudly  triumphing, 

Won  for  herself  a  lasting  resting-place ; 

Now  seek  upon  the  heights  of  Time  the  source 

Of  a  HOLY  RIVER,  on  whose  banks  are  found 

Sweet  pastoral  flowers,  and  laurels  that  have  crowned 

Full  oft  the  unworthy  brow  of  lawless  force ; 

And,  for  delight  of  him  who  tracks  its  course, 

Immortal  amaranth  and  palms  abound. 


3 


II 

ALFRED 

Behold  a  pupil  of  the  monkish  gown, 

The  pious  ALFRED,  King  to  Justice  dear  ! 

Lord  of  the  harp  and  liberating  spear  ; 

Mirror  of  Princes  !  Indigent  Renown 

Might  range  the  starry  ether  for  a  crown 

Equal  to  his  deserts,  who,  like  the  year, 

Pours  forth  his  bounty,  like  the  day  doth  cheer, 

And  awes  like  night  with  mercy-  tempered  frown. 

Ease  from  this  noble  miser  of  his  time 

No  moment  steals;  pain  narrows  not  his  cares. 

Though  small  his  kingdom  as  a  spark  or  gem, 

Of  Alfred  boasts  remote  Jerusalem, 

And  Christian  India,  through  her  wide-spread  clime, 

In  sacred  converse  gifts  with  Alfred  shares. 


III 

HIS  DESCENDANTS 


When  thy  great  soul  was  freed  from  mortal  chains, 

Darling  of  England !  many  a  bitter  shower 

Fell  on  thy  tomb ;  but  emulative  power 

Flowed  in  thy  line  through  undegenerate  veins. 

The  Race  of  Alfred  covet  glorious  pains 

When  dangers  threaten,  dangers  ever  new ! 

Black  tempests  bursting,  blacker  still  in  view ! 

But  manly  sovereignty  its  hold  retains ; 

The  root  sincere,  the  branches  bold  to  strive 

With  the  fierce  tempest,  while,  within  the  round 

Of  their  protection,  gentle  virtues  thrive ; 

As  oft, 'mid  some  green  plot  of  open  ground, 

Wide  as  the  oak  extends  its  dewy  gloom, 

The  fostered  hyacinths  spread  their  purple  bloom. 


O    ] 

IV 
CANUTE 

A  pleasant  music  floats  along  the  Mere, 

From  Monks  in  Ely  chanting  service  high, 

While-as  Canute  the  King  is  rowing  by : 

'  My  Oarsmen,'  quoth  the  mighty  King,  *  draw  near, 

That  we  the  sweet  song  of  the  Monks  may  hear ! ' 

He  listens  (all  past  conquests,  and  all  schemes 

Of  future,  vanishing  like  empty  dreams) 

Heart- touched,  and  haply  not  without  a  tear. 

The  Royal  Minstrel,  ere  the  choir  is  still, 

While  his  free  Barge  skims  the  smooth  flood  along, 

Gives  to  that  rapture  an  accordant  Rhyme. 

O  suffering  Earth !  be  thankful :  sternest  clime 

And  rudest  age  are  subject  to  the  thrill 

Of  heaven-descended  Piety  and  Song. 


[44 


THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST 

The  woman-hearted  Confessor  prepares 

The  evanescence  of  the  Saxon  line. 

Hark !  't  is  the  tolling  Curfew !  — the  stars  shine ; 

But  of  the  lights  that  cherish  household  cares 

And  festive  gladness,  burns  not  one  that  dares 

To  twinkle  after  that  dull  stroke  of  thine, 

Emblem  and  instrument,  from  Thames  to  Tyne, 

Of  force  that  daunts,  and  cunning  that  ensnares ! 

Yet  as  the  terrors  of  the  lordly  bell, 

That  quench,  from  hut  to  palace,  lamps  and  fires, 

Touch  not  the  tapers  of  the  sacred  quires ; 

Even  so  a  thraldom,  studious  to  expel 

Old  laws,  and  ancient  customs  to  derange, 

To  Creed  or  Ritual  brings  no  fatal  change. 


VI 
CRUSADES 

The  turbaned  Race  are  poured  in  thickening  swarms 
Along  the  west ;  though  driven  from  Aquitaine, 
The  Crescent  glitters  on  the  towers  of  Spain ; 
And  soft  Italia  feels  renewed  alarms ; 
The  scimitar,  that  yields  not  to  the  charms 
Of  ease,  the  narrow  Bosphorus  will  disdain ; 
Nor  long  (that  crossed)  would  Grecian  hills  detain 
Their  tents,  and  check  the  current  of  their  arms. 
Then  blame  not  those  who,  by  the  mightiest  lever 
Known  to  the  moral  world,  Imagination, 
Upheave,  so  seems  it,  from  her  natural  station 
All  Christendom :  — they  sweep  along  (was  never 
So  huge  a  host !)  — to  tear  from  the  Unbeliever 
The  precious  Tomb,  their  haven  of  salvation. 


VII 


WALTON'S  BOOK  OF  LIVES 


There  are  no  colours  in  the  fairest  sky 

So  fair  as  these.  The  feather,  whence  the  pen 

Was  shaped  that  traced  the  lives  of  these  good  men, 

Dropped  from  an  Angel's  wing.  With  moistened  eye 

We  read  of  faith  and  purest  charity 

In  Statesman,  Priest,  and  humble  Citizen : 

Oh  could  we  copy  their  mild  virtues,  then 

What  joy  to  live,  what  blessedness  to  die ! 

Methinks  their  very  names  shine  still  and  bright ; 

Apart — like  glow-worms  on  a  summer  night; 

Or  lonely  tapers  when  from  far  they  fling 

A  guiding  ray ;  or  seen — like  stars  on  high, 

Satellites  burning  in  a  lucid  ring 

Around  meek  Walton's  heavenly  memory. 


3 


VIII 
THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS 

Well  worthy  to  be  magnified  are  they 
Who,  with  sad  hearts,  of  friends  and  country  took 
A  last  farewell,  their  loved  abodes  forsook, 
And  hallowed  ground  in  which  their  fathers  lay  ; 
Then  to  the  new-found  World  explored  their  way, 
That  so  a  Church,  unforced,  uncalled  to  brook 
Ritual  restraints,  within  some  sheltering  nook 
Her  Lord  might  worship  and  his  word  obey 
In  freedom.  Men  they  were  who  could  not  bend  ; 
Blest  Pilgrims,  surely,  as  they  took  for  guide 
A  will  by  sovereign  Conscience  sanctified  ; 
Blest  while  their  Spirits  from  the  woods  ascend 
Along  a  Galaxy  that  knows  no  end, 
But  in  His  glory  who  for  sinners  died. 


o  n 

IX 
CONCLUSION 

Why  sleeps  the  future,  as  a  snake  enrolled, 
Coil  within  coil,  at  noon-tide?  For  the  WORD 
Yields,  if  with  unpresumptuous  faith  explored, 
Power  at  whose  touch  the  sluggard  shall  unfold 
His  drowsy  rings.  Look  forth !  — that  Stream  behold, 
THAT  STREAM  upon  whose  bosom  we  have  passed 
Floating  at  ease  while  nations  have  effaced 
Nations,  and  Death  has  gathered  to  his  fold 
Long  lines  of  mighty  Kings — look  forth,  my  Soul ! 
(Nor  in  this  vision  be  thou  slow  to  trust) 
The  living  Waters,  less  and  less  by  guilt 
Stained  and  polluted,  brighten  as  they  roll, 
Till  they  have  reached  the  eternal  City — built 
For  the  perfected  Spirit  of  the  just ! 


The  Poet 


Scorn  not  the  Sonnet;  Critic, you  have  frowned, 

Mindless  of  its  just  honours;  with  this  key 

Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart ;  the  melody 

Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound ; 

A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 

With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 

The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 

Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 

His  visionary  brow :  a  glow-worm  lamp, 

It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faeryland 

To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and,  when  a  damp 

Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 

The  Thing  became  a  trumpet ;  whence  he  blew 

Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few! 


C 


Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room ; 
And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells ; 
And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels ; 
Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 
Sit  blithe  and  happy ;  bees  that  soar  for  bloom, 
High  as  the  highest  Peak  of  Furness-fells, 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells : 
In  truth  the  prison,  into  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is :  and  hence  for  me, 
In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground ; 
Pleased  if  some  Souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 
Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty, 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  found. 


There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains 

Which  only  Poets  know;  —  't  was  rightly  said ; 

Whom  could  the  Muses  else  allure  to  tread 

Their  smoothest  paths,  to  wear  their  lightest  chains? 

When  happiest  Fancy  has  inspired  the  strains, 

How  oft  the  malice  of  one  luckless  word 

Pursues  the  Enthusiast  to  the  social  board, 

Haunts  him  belated  on  the  silent  plains ! 

Yet  he  repines  not,  if  his  thought  stand  clear, 

At  last,  of  hindrance  and  obscurity, 

Fresh  as  the  star  that  crowns  the  brow  of  morn ; 

Bright,  speckless,  as  a  softly-moulded  tear 

The  moment  it  has  left  the  virgin's  eye, 

Or  rain-drop  lingering  on  the  pointed  thorn. 


c: 


A  Poet! — He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school, 

Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon  the  staff 

Which  Art  hath  lodged  within  his  hand — must  laugh 

By  precept  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule. 

Thy  Art  be  Nature ;  the  live  current  quaff, 

And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool, 

In  fear  that  else,  when  Critics  grave  and  cool 

Have  killed  him,  Scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 

How  does  the  Meadow-flower  its  bloom  unfold? 

Because  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free 

Down  to  its  root,  and,  in  that  freedom,  bold ; 

And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  Forest-tree 

Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  formal  mould, 

But  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 


Praised  be  the  Art  whose  subtle  power  could  stay 
Yon  cloud,  and  fix  it  in  that  glorious  shape ; 
Nor  would  permit  the  thin  smoke  to  escape, 
Nor  those  bright  sunbeams  to  forsake  the  day ; 
Which  stopped  that  band  of  travellers  on  their  way, 
Ere  they  were  lost  within  the  shady  wood ; 
And  showed  the  Bark  upon  the  glassy  flood 
For  ever  anchored  in  her  sheltering  bay. 
Soul-soothing  Art!  whom  Morning,  Noontide,  Even, 
Do  serve  with  all  their  changeful  pageantry ; 
Thou,  with, ambition  modest  yet  sublime, 
Here,  for  the  sight  of  mortal  man,  hast  given 
To  one  brief  moment  caught  from  fleeting  time 
The  appropriate  calm  of  blest  eternity. 


C 


High  is  our  calling,  Friend !  — Creative  Art 
(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use, 
Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues,) 
Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 
Though  sensitive,  yet,  in  their  weakest  part, 
Heroically  fashioned  —  to  infuse 
Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  Muse, 
While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert. 
And,  oh !  when  Nature  sinks,  as  oft  she  may, 
Through  long-lived  pressure  of  obscure  distress, 
Still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  reward, 
And  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay, 
Brook  no  continuance  of  weak-mindedness — 
Great  is  the  glory,  for  the  strife  is  hard ! 


C 


Ye  sacred  Nurseries  of  blooming  Youth ! 

In  whose  collegiate  shelter  England's  Flowers 

Expand,  enjoying  through  their  vernal  hours 

The  air  of  liberty,  the  light  of  truth ; 

Much  have  ye  suffered  from  Time's  gnawing  tooth : 

Yet,  O  ye  spires  of  Oxford !  domes  and  towers ! 

Gardens  and  groves !  your  presence  overpowers 

The  soberness  of  reason ;  till,  in  sooth, 

Transformed,  and  rushing  on  a  bold  exchange, 

I  slight  my  own  beloved  Cam,  to  range 

Where  silver  Isis  leads  my  stripling  feet ; 

Pace  the  long  avenue,  or  glide  adown 

The  stream-like  windings  of  that  glorious  street — 

An  eager  Novice  robed  in  fluttering  gown ! 


Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell 
Of  civil  conflict,  nor  the  wrecks  of  change, 
Nor  Duty  struggling  with  afflictions  strange — 
Not  these  alone  inspire  the  tuneful  shell ; 
But  where  untroubled  peace  and  concord  dwell, 
There  also  is  the  Muse  not  loth  to  range, 
Watching  the  twilight  smoke  of  cot  or  grange, 
Skyward  ascending  from  a  woody  dell. 
Meek  aspirations  please  her,  lone  endeavour, 
And  sage  content,  and  placid  melancholy ; 
She  loves  to  gaze  upon  a  crystal  river — 
Diaphanous  because  it  travels  slowly ; 
Soft  is  the  music  that  would  charm  for  ever ; 
The  flower  of  sweetest  smell  is  shy  and  lowly. 


PERSONAL  TALK 

\ 

I 

I  am  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk,  — 
Of  friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk, 
Or  neighbours,  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight : 
And,  for  my  chance-acquaintance,  ladies  bright, 
Sons,  mothers,  maidens  withering  on  the  stalk, 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  Forms,  with  chalk 
Painted  on  rich  men's  floors,  for  one  feast-night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long, 
Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire ; 
To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim, 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame, 
Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. 


II 


4  Yet  life,'  you  say, '  is  life ;  we  have  seen  and  see, 

And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe ; 

And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 

The  languid  mind  into  activity. 

Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and  glee 

Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe.' 

Even  be  it  so ;  yet  still  among  your  tribe, 

Our  daily  world's  true  Worldlings,  rank  not  me  ! 

Children  are  blest,  and  powerful ;  their  world  lies 

More  justly  balanced ;  partly  at  their  feet, 

And  part  far  from  them :  sweetest  melodies 

Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet ; 

Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes, 

He  is  a  Slave ;  the  meanest  we  can  meet ! 


C 


III 


Wings  have  we, — and  as  far  as  we  can  go, 

We  may  find  pleasure :  wilderness  and  wood, 

Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that  mood 

Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 

Dreams,  books,  are  each  a  world ;  and  books,  we  know, 

Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good : 

Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 

Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 

There  find  I  personal  themes,  a  plenteous  store, 

Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am, 

To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear ; 

Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear,  — 

The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor ; 

And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  Lamb. 


c: 


IV 


Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 

Great  gains  are  mine ;  for  thus  I  live  remote 

From  evil-speaking ;  rancour,  never  sought, 

Comes  to  me  not;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 

Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 

Smooth  passions,  smooth  discourse,  and  joyous  thought 

And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 

Rocks  in  its  harbour,  lodging  peaceably. 

Blessings  be  with  them — and  eternal  praise, 

Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares  — 

The  Poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 

Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays ! 

Oh !  might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs, 

Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 


c: 


TO  SLEEP 

I 

0  gentle  Sleep  !  do  they  belong  to  thee, 
These  twinklings  of  oblivion?  Thou  dost  love 
To  sit  in  meekness,  like  the  brooding  Dove, 
A  captive  never  wishing  to  be  free. 

This  tiresome  night,  O  Sleep  !  thou  art  to  me 
A  Fly,  that  up  and  down  himself  doth  shove 
Upon  a  fretful  rivulet,  now  above 
Now  on  the  water  vexed  with  mockery. 

1  have  no  pain  that  calls  for  patience,  no  ; 
Hence  am  I  cross  and  peevish  as  a  child  : 
Am  pleased  by  fits  to  have  thee  for  my  foe, 
Yet  ever  willing  to  be  reconciled  : 

O  gentle  Creature  !  do  not  use  me  so, 
But  once  and  deeply  let  me  be  beguiled. 


II 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky ; 
I  have  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless !  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees ; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep !  by  any  stealth : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away : 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health ! 


[63 


III 


Fond  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee,  Sleep ! 
And  thou  hast  had  thy  store  of  tenderest  names ; 
The  very  sweetest,  Fancy  culls  or  frames, 
When  thankfulness  of  heart  is  strong  and  deep ! 
Dear  bosom-child  we  call  thee,  that  dost  steep 
In  rich  reward  all  suffering ;  Balm  that  tames 
All  anguish ;  Saint  that  evil  thoughts  and  aims 
Takest  away,  and  into  souls  dost  creep, 
Like  to  a  breeze  from  heaven.  Shall  I  alone, 
I  surely  not  a  man  ungently  made, 
Call  thee  worst  Tyrant  by  which  Flesh  is  crost? 
Perverse,  self-willed  to  own  and  to  disown, 
Mere  slave  of  them  who  never  for  thee  prayed, 
Still  last  to  come  where  thou  art  wanted  most ! 


[   64 


'  Why,  Minstrel,  these  untuneful  murmurings— 
Dull,  flagging  notes  that  with  each  other  jar  ? ' 
4  Think,  gentle  Lady,  of  a  Harp  so  far 
From  its  own  country,  and  forgive  the  strings.' 
A  simple  answer!  but  even  so  forth  springs, 
From  the  Castalian  fountain  of  the  heart, 
The  Poetry  of  Life,  and  all  that  Art 
Divine  of  words  quickening  insensate  things. 
From  the  submissive  necks  of  guiltless  men 
Stretched  on  the  block,  the  glittering  axe  recoils ; 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  all  struggle  in  the  toils 
Of  mortal  sympathy ;  what  wonder  then 
That  the  poor  Harp  distempered  music  yields 
To  its  sad  Lord,  far  from  his  native  fields  ? 


Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,  the  boat 

Lingers,  but  Fancy  is  well  satisfied ; 

With  keen-eyed  Hope,  with  Memory,  at  her  side, 

And  the  glad  Muse  at  liberty  to  note 

All  that  to  each  is  precious,  as  we  float 

Gently  along ;  regardless  who  shall  chide 

If  the  heavens  smile,  and  leave  us  free  to  glide, 

Happy  Associates  breathing  air  remote 

From  trivial  cares.  But,  Fancy  and  the  Muse, 

Why  have  I  crowded  this  small  bark  with  you 

And  others  of  your  kind,  ideal  crew ! 

While  here  sits  One  whose  brightness  owes  its  hues 

To  flesh  and  blood ;  no  Goddess  from  above, 

No  fleeting  Spirit,  but  my  own  true  love? 


Surprised  by  joy — impatient  as  the  Wind 

I  turned  to  share  the  transport — Oh !  with  whom 

But  Thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 

That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find? 

Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my  mind— 

But  how  could  I  forget  thee?  Through  what  power, 

Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 

Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 

To  my  most  grievous  loss? — That  thought's  return 

Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore, 

Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 

Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more; 

That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 

Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 


4  Weak  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind ; 
Remembrance  persecutes,  and  Hope  betrays ; 
Heavy  is  woe ;  — and  joy,  for  human-kind, 
A  mournful  thing,  so  transient  is  the  blaze ! ' 
Thus  might  he  paint  our  lot  of  mortal  days 
Who  wants  the  glorious  faculty  assigned 
To  elevate  the  more-than-reasoning  Mind, 
And  colour  life's  dark  cloud  with  orient  rays. 
Imagination  is  that  sacred  power, 
Imagination  lofty  and  refined ;  :   • 

'T  is  hers  to  pluck  the  amaranthine  flower 
Of  Faith,  and  round  the  Sufferer's  temples  bind 
Wreaths  that  endure  affliction's  heaviest  shower, 
And  do  not  shrink  from  sorrow's  keenest  wind. 


[    68 


Grief,  thou  hast  lost  an  ever-ready  friend 
Now  that  the  cottage  Spinning-wheel  is  mute ; 
And  Care — a  comforter  that  best  could  suit 
Her  froward  mood,  and  softliest  reprehend ; 
And  Love — a  charmer's  voice,  that  used  to  lend, 
More  efficaciously  than  aught  that  flows 
From  harp  or  lute,  kind  influence  to  compose 
The  throbbing  pulse — else  troubled  without  end : 
Even  Joy  could  tell,  Joy  craving  truce  and  rest 
From  her  own  overflow,  what  power  sedate 
On  those  revolving  motions  did  await 
Assiduously — to  soothe  her  aching  breast; 
And,  to  a  point  of  just  relief,  abate 
The  mantling  triumphs  of  a  day  too  blest. 


C  69  3 


While  flowing  rivers  yield  a  blameless  sport, 

Shall  live  the  n£me  of  Walton :  Sage  benign ! 

Whose  pen,  the  mysteries  of  the  rod  and  line 

Unfolding,  did  not  fruitlessly  exhort 

To  reverend  watching  of  each  still  report 

That  Nature  utters  from  her  rural  shrine. 

Meek,  nobly  versed  in  simple  discipline, 

He  found  the  longest  summer  day  too  short, 

To  his  loved  pastime  given  by  sedgy  Lee, 

Or  down  the  tempting  maze  of  Shawford  brook — 

Fairer  than  life  itself,  in  this  sweet  Book, 

The  cowslip-bank  and  shady  willow-tree ; 

And  the  fresh  meads — where  flowed,  from  every  nook 

Of  his  full  bosom,  gladsome  Piety ! 


Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 

To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none, 

While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  lies 

Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon ; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 

The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 

Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 

Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse : 

With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way, 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, 

The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 

Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 


If  these  brief  Records,  by  the  Muses'  art 
Produced  as  lonely  Nature  or  the  strife 
That  animates  the  scenes  of  public  life 
Inspired,  may  in  thy  leisure  claim  a  part ; 
And  if  these  Transcripts  of  the  private  heart 
Have  gained  a  sanction  from  thy  falling  tears ; 
Then  I  repent  not.  But  my  soul  hath  fears 
Breathed  from  eternity ;  for,  as  a  dart 
Cleaves  the  blank  air,  Life  flies :  now  every  day 
Is  but  a  glimmering  spoke  in  the  swift  wheel 
Of  the  revolving  week.  Away,  away, 
All  fitful  cares,  all  transitory  zeal ! 
So  timely  Grace  the  immortal  wing  may  heal, 
And  honour  rest  upon  the  senseless  clay. 


C 


Even  so  for  me  a  Vision  sanctified 

The  sway  of  Death ;  long  ere  mine  eyes  had  seen 

Thy  countenance — the  still  rapture  of  thy  mien — 

When  thou,  dear  Sister !  wert  become  Death's  Bride : 

No  trace  of  pain  or  languor  could  abide 

That  change :  — age  on  thy  brow  was  smoothed — thy  cold 

Wan  cheek  at  once  was  privileged  to  unfold 

A  loveliness  to  living  youth  denied. 

Oh !  if  within  me  hope  should  e'er  decline, 

The  lamp  of  faith,  lost  Friend !  too  faintly  burn ; 

Then  may  that  heaven-revealing  smile  of  thine, 

The  bright  assurance,  visibly  return : 

And  let  my  spirit  in  that  power  divine 

Rejoice,  as,  through  that  power,  it  ceased  to  mourn. 


Adieu, Rydalian  Laurels!  that  have  grown 
And  spread  as  if  ye  knew  that  days  might  come 
When  ye  would  shelter  in  a  happy  home, 
On  this  fair  Mount,  a  Poet  of  your  own, 
One  who  ne'er  ventured  for  a  Delphic  crown 
To  sue  the  God ;  but,  haunting  your  green  shade 
All  seasons  through,  is  humbly  pleased  to  braid 
Ground-flowers,  beneath  your  guardianship,  self-sown, 
Farewell !  no  minstrels  now  with  harp  new-strung 
For  summer  wandering  quit  their  household  bowers ; 
Yet  not  for  this  wants  Poesy  a  tongue 
To  cheer  the  Itinerant  on  whom  she  pours 
Her  spirit,  while  he  crosses  lonely  moors, 
Or  musing  sits  forsaken  halls  among. 


C  ™  3 


I  thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide, 

As  being  past  away.  — Vain  sympathies ! 

For,  backward,  Duddon,  as  I  cast  my  eyes, 

I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide ; 

Still  glides  the  Stream,  and  shall  for  ever  glide; 

The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies ; 

While  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise, 

We  Men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 

The  elements,  must  vanish ;  — be  it  so ! 

Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 

To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour ; 

And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go, 

Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  transcendent  dower, 

We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 


C  w  3 


Serving  no  haughty  Muse,  my  hands  have  here 

Disposed  some  cultured  Flowerets  (drawn  from  spots 

Where  they  bloomed  singly,  or  in  scattered  knots), 

Each  kind  in  several  beds  of  one  parterre ; 

Both  to  allure  the  casual  Loiterer, 

And  that,  so  placed,  my  Nurslings  may  requite 

Studious  regard  with  opportune  delight, 

Nor  be  unthanked,  unless  I  fondly  err. 

But  metaphor  dismissed,  and  thanks  apart, 

Reader,  farewell !  My  last  words  let  them  be — 

If  in  this  book  Fancy  and  Truth  agree ; 

If  simple  Nature  trained  by  careful  Art 

Through  It  have  won  a  passage  to  thy  heart ; 

Grant  me  thy  love,  I  crave  no  other  fee ! 


FOUR  HUNDRED   AND  FORTY  COPIES 
PRINTED  AT  THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS  CAMBRIDGE 

IN  SEPTEMBER  MDCCCCX 
FOR  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


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